


Vitality

by Longpig



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Careful Sex with Injured Partner, Established Relationship, M/M, Thank God We're Alive Sex, Well Jaskier tried anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longpig/pseuds/Longpig
Summary: After coming too close to losing Geralt for comfort, Jaskier and the Witcher both need to feel alive.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Vitality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



“I still say you should have let me help; I’m not completely inexperienced, you know. I could have done  _ something, _ distracted it maybe!” 

Geralt grunted irritably. 

“At the very least you needn’t have  _ thrown _ me into a tree. That was just humiliating. Or would have been if there was anyone around. I’ll be leaving that part out of the song, you can be sure. It doesn’t reflect well on either of us—”

“Jaskier.”

“—I mean perhaps if I was writing for  _ comedy, _ but I’m trying to preserve a certain  _ mystique _ and—”   
  
“ _ Jaskier.”  _ The name was a growl, pushed through clenched teeth. “Shut up and get me up these stairs.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung agape for a second, then snapped shut. “Right. Sorry. Stairs, getting up, yes.” He knew he’d been babbling; he couldn’t help it. Words were how he processed everything and, well, just now there was a lot to process. He  _ hadn’t _ realized he’d stopped halfway up the stairs to their room at the inn, with Geralt’s considerable bulk leaned against his shoulder. The two of them were completely blocking the thoroughfare and, quite likely, posing a significant risk to the fire safety of the establishment. He pulled Geralt’s arm more tightly around his shoulders, readjusting the weight. The two of them lurched the rest of the way to the landing in silence; Jaskier from the effort, and Geralt because he enjoyed playing the stoic.

It simply wasn’t fair, he thought to himself as he fumbled in the pockets of his now bloodied doublet— _ rest in peace, my beloved Toussaint brocade! _ —for the room key. Not everyone could suppress their emotions like a witcher, and how was he, but a humble bard, supposed to react to seeing his best friend and lover nearly eviscerated by some shambling horror, while he was powerless to assist? The shambling horrors were nothing new, true enough—but this was the most grievous injury he’d seen in all his time with Geralt. If those claws had sunk but an inch deeper… Jaskier shook his head absently as he helped him to the bed. It didn’t bear thinking about… eExcept that he couldn’t  _ not _ think about it. His eyes glanced over the mangled black brigandine, still glossy with gore.  _ Glossy with gore. Oh yes, that’s good. Must remember that bit. _

“Let’s get all this mess off you, shall we?” Jaskier fussed distractedly with one of the many buckles before Geralt swatted his hand away.

“I don’t need  _ coddling, _ ” he grumbled. “I’m fine.” 

“Fine?  _ Fine?! _ ” Jaskier gasped, indignant. Geralt pretended not to hear, and set about removing his armor with a stubborn tightness in his jaw that Jaskier recognized all too well. “You were nearly killed!”

“Witchers heal quickly.”

“Not if you’re dead!”

Geralt made a noise that was either a sigh or an annoyed huff. He reached up, grabbed the collar of Jaskier’s doublet, and yanked sharply downward so that his bottom made abrupt and unexpected contact with the bed. “What do I have to do,” he grumbled, “to get you to shut up?” Before he could answer what might or might not have been a rhetorical question, Geralt, still holding on to his lapel, pulled him close and kissed him hard. For a moment, he quite forgot his worriment, leaning into Geralt’s rough embrace. He smelled like blood, sweat, and old leather —aromas that would have been offensive to his senses if they weren’t  _ Geralt’s. _ Warmth crept up from beneath his collar, blossoming in his cheeks.

“Well that’s certainly a convincing argument,” he gasped, when Geralt allowed him a chance to breathe. “Perhaps I was overreacting. You certainly seem… spry.” He flashed him a saucy grin, and slipped an arm around his shoulders, running his other hand slowly down his broad, muscled chest. Geralt grunted in amusement, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. Jaskier rested his head against his chest, and slid his hand lower, exploring the chiseled planes of his stomach beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Geralt winced. If Jaskier had blinked, he would have missed it— an almost inaudible intake of breath, a barely perceptible tightening of the muscles in his neck. Jaskier pulled away, his mouth hanging open in a perfect ‘o’ of indignation.

“I  _ knew _ it!” he exclaimed, now flushed with a different sort of heat. “You  _ are _ hurt!” Geralt was rather like a cat—or no, a  _ wolf, _ that made for a better simile— in that he would always try to hide his pain. If he had failed to conceal it from Jaskier, it must be serious indeed.

“Jaskier, please.”

Jaskier started to rise, ready to carry on with a well deserved admonishment for his recklessness and refusal to accept assistance, but Geralt clamped a hand around his wrist and held him fast. “Wait,” he sighed. Jaskier looked up to find an unexpected vulnerability softening his features. He wavered. Those golden eyes had  _ no right _ to be so damn  _ soulful!  _ “You’re right,” he murmured—two words that would have had Jaskier crowing under most any other circumstance. “It was close today. Too close. Now I just want to know that I’m alive.” He let go of his arm and cupped Jaskier’s face in his hand, brushing a calloused thumb over his cheek. “And that you are, too.” The smoulder in his eyes set his poet’s heart—and his loins—afire.

“Oh,” he breathed, before Geralt’s lips claimed his again. The argument was a convincing one. Jaskier soon found himself sitting in his lap with his doublet half undone, with Geralt’s hand between his thighs, palming his very hard and very much alive cock through his breeches. Jaskier’s fingers twisted in Geralt’s silvery hair as his hungry mouth left a trail of rough, stubbly kisses down his neck that would blossom like roses in the morning, his whole body singing with lust.

“Are you sure you’re alright to do this?” he panted, as Geralt yanked his doublet the rest of the way open. 

“I’m fine—I’ll  _ be _ fine.” He felt a smirk against his throat. “See for yourself.” Geralt shifted him off his lap, then pulled off his shirt. He moved back to lie on the bed, reclining on his elbow with a wolfish grin. Even in the low light, Jaskier couldn’t miss the way the buttons of his high waisted trousers strained to hold back his bulging hardon. With practiced ease he unfastened them, tugging the fly open to free the tremendous tent in his shorts. Jaskier licked his lips, then scrambled to be rid of his own shirt and breeches, uttering a few colourful phrases when the laces tangled into a knot, then a few more as he forced the garment—along with his underwear—down over his hips anyway.

He lay down next to Geralt, nestling himself in the crook of his arm, pressing his lean body against Geralt’s battle hardened bulk. He ran his fingers through Geralt’s chest hair, toying briefly with his medallion, then hesitated. Now that they were closer, he had a better look at his injury, an ugly gash along the side of his abdomen, following the line of his pelvis down to the groin, where it disappeared beneath his drawers. Though no longer open and bleeding, the flesh there looked raw and angry, and a deep, purple-black bruise spread out like a stain all around it.

“By tomorrow it’ll be just another scar for you to write a song about,” said Geralt, following his gaze. He pulled Jaskier’s leg over his own, and slid his hand up his thigh to give his ass a squeeze.

“But tonight…?” Jaskier’s brow furrowed slightly. As hard as his blood was pounding in his ears—and in his cock—he didn’t want to hurt Geralt, as laughable as that thought might otherwise have been.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He reached for Jaskier’s hand and drew it firmly to his crotch, pressing his palm against the thick, hot bulge in his drawers. Jaskier’s fingers wrapped of their own accord around his cock, squeezing gently as Geralt guided his first stroke. “Tonight’s fine.” He released Jaskier’s hand and slipped his own between his legs, humming his approval as he grasped his shaft. “Better already.”

Jaskier moaned in agreement as Geralt pumped his cock, gasping as he rolled his thumb across the leaking tip. He curled his fingers under the waist of Geralt’s drawers and pulled them down past the base of his shaft, mindful not to drag the cloth over his wound, then just as carefully hiked his trousers down past his hips. Geralt’s cock was large, girthy and thickly veined, and Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight every time. A lesser man might have balked, but Jaskier prided himself on not backing down from a challenge such as this. That, and breath control. He gave the breeches another tug, and Geralt took the hint, lifting his hips from the bed long enough to let Jaskier pull them the rest of the way off. He positioned himself between Geralt’s legs and leaned over until his lips barely brushed his cock, taking a moment to inhale the musky scent, then flicked his tongue over the bead of pre-come welling from the tip. Geralt’s hips jerked sharply.

“Fuck,” he groaned. Jaskier smiled, took a deep breath, and got to work. His lips parted eagerly for Geralt’s cock and he swallowed him down as far as he could, then swirled his tongue along the base as he drew back, using his hand to keep pace at the base. His jaw would be aching the next day, but it was more than worth it to hear the sounds Geralt was making, to feel him twitch with pleasure at his touch, and to have his strong yet gentle hand stroke his hair, guiding him without ever forcing. His own cock hung heavy and dripping between his legs, so hard it almost ached. He stroked himself with his free hand, moaning lasciviously around Geralt.

_ “Fuck,” _ Geralt grunted again, his fingers curling in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier lifted his head and smiled back with swollen, rosy lips.

“If you think you can manage.” He winked.

Geralt’s lip curled into a playful snarl. “Get over here,” he growled. He started to sit up, but Jaskier stayed him with a hand on his chest. He still misliked the look of that wound, and couldn’t help but think about what  _ might _ happen if Geralt were to overexert himself… 

“Let me do the work tonight,” he purred. Before Geralt could object, he leaned over him and silenced any protest with a kiss. Jaskier pressed against him, taking care to avoid putting much of his weight on his injured side, and languidly rolled his hips onto Geralt’s cock until he gave up and relaxed back onto the bed.

“Pushy,” he griped.

“I prefer ‘assertive.’” Jaskier tossed back. He reached into the bedside table drawer for the jar of tallow. “Or ‘decisive.’ ‘Bold,’ even.”

“Mouthy.”

“I daresay you didn’t appear to have a problem with that just now.” He scooped out a large dollop of the greasy substance, warming it with the heat of his hands so that it melted between his palms. Geralt’s smirk softened with equal haste, his eyelids dropping closed as Jaskier’s slick fingers firmly stroked his cock. Keeping a steady pace with his hand, he moved to straddle him. Taking care to keep his weight on his knees rather than on Geralt’s body, he lowered himself until he felt the hot, blunt pressure of Geralt’s cock at his entrance. He braced himself, his hands planted by Geralt’s sides, a shiver of anticipation running down his spine. Slowly, he rocked backward, teasing his rim with the slick, meaty head, coaxing himself to open; until at last he felt the slight sting, then the sweet, familiar stretch. A moan escaped his lips as he sank down onto his cock, and shuddered at the deliciously, impossibly  _ full _ feeling of Geralt inside him.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, lifted his hips, then languidly eased back down again, setting an unhurried, sensual pace. The sensations building within him were so intense already that even if he hadn’t been wary of jostling Geralt, he would have preferred to savor them rather than be overwhelmed.

The leisurely tempo did not suit Geralt for long, however. Large, powerful hands wrapped around Jaskier’s slender waist, guiding him more vigorously up and down in time with Geralt’s thrusts. Jaskier gasped and moaned, barely able to control himself under the onslaught of pleasure as Geralt drove into him, pounding his most sensitive depths. He was no longer sure of how well he was avoiding Geralt’s injuries, but he was confident that his grunts and grimaces weren’t borne of pain. His own cock slapped wetly against his belly with each thrust, aching for friction, for any kind of touch as the fiery pressure built in the pit of his stomach. He moved to stroke himself, but Geralt swatted his hand away, and instead wrapped his own around Jaskier’s shaft. His calloused, battle roughened fingers slid briskly over his precome-slicked cock in time with his thrusts, until Jaskier couldn’t hold back any longer. He moaned something like a mixture of Geralt’s name and some Toussaint profanity, his body tensing and jerking as surges of pleasure rocked him, and thick pearly come spilled out over Geralt’s hand.

Geralt gripped Jaskier’s hips again, fingers sinking into his flesh, and managed a few more quick, hard thrusts before he stilled, his brow deeply furrowed, and spent himself deep inside Jaskier’s ass with a grunt and a curse. Jaskier felt him throb, then relax beneath him, his head sinking into the pillow as the tension eased from his features.

Still panting, Jaskier lifted himself shakily to his knees, gasping softly as Geralt’s slick, softening cock slid out of him. He let himself drop to Geralt’s side once more and pulled his arm around his shoulders, snuggling against him while they both caught their breath. 

“Told you I was fine,” Geralt said after a moment, without opening his eyes.

“Very well,” Jaskier huffed good-naturedly, with a half hearted swat to his chest, “I concede that you have sufficiently proved your vitality.”

“If you need me to prove it again I just need… Hmm. Five minutes.”

Witchers do recover more quickly, after all.


End file.
